May 30, 2019
Two Tragedies and a Near Miss
Floodwood MN to Superior, WI
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Jackie’s avg speed: 8.3 mph
Scott’s avg speed: 10.9 mph
Weather: 53-48 degrees, northeast winds 15 mph
Morning is often the happiest time of our day. We generally sleep well after a day in the fresh air, so we greet the new day with a sense of optimism. Today we tanked up on oatmeal, tea, cocoa, and coffee in the room, then went to get sandwiches from Subway located adjacent to our motel. Scott loves mornings so much, he does not appreciate it when the unforeseen interferes with forward momentum. “That took a lot longer than I expected,” he said when at last I came out with the booty. “There were three people ahead of me.” We were underway at 08:44.
For this day’s ride, Scott had done some internet research about the country we would ride through. His impulse was timely, since this particular landscape had been leveled by an historic fire 101 years ago.
Thinking about it gave us something else to focus on besides the chilly headwind that dropped the temperature over the course of the day. The woods on either side of the road mitigated the wind somewhat, but not in a predictable way. Sometimes we would gear down to pedal through strong resistance, other times the wind would disappear and we could go at a decent pace. Highway 2 became increasingly gnarly, with crumbling asphalt strewn across the shoulder and heavy traffic bound to and from Duluth, Minnesota’s fourth largest city.
The landscape we experienced - rolling hills thick with deciduous and conifer forests and a verge with lush green grass – did not exist in October 1918. According to MNpedia, the source for the following summary about the fire, in 1918 this area was a wasteland of logging detritus and stacks of dry timber. The summer and fall had been extremely dry, creating the conditions for “the worst natural disaster in Minnesota history.” Smoldering fires near railroad tracks in the area of Moose Lake started October 4. Sparks from a Great Northern locomotive near Cloquet ignited a fire there on October 10.
When the temperature and humidity dropped and wind rose on October 12, these fires sparked more than 50 others and generated winds up to 60 miles an hour. (Something to help us keep perspective when pedaling against the wind). The fires consumed 1,500 square miles in 15 hours, leveled towns and villages, and killed 450 people. Those who survived drove their cars into the safety of lake shores or jumped into streams and ditches. Some suffocated when they took shelter in root cellars. Others who tried to race the fire in their cars perished when the fire overtook them.
Great Northern Railway, which bore some culpability for not complying with regulations to suppress sparks, evacuated and rescued thousands. The town of Cloquet got out more than 7,000 people, five died. Telephone operators called every number, the fire department sent runners to warn people, and the mayor organized four evacuation trains. A statewide relief effort started October 13 and the rebuilding shortly afterward. That is pretty impressive. With more time, it would be interesting to research how logging regulations might have changed in the aftermath.
Scott and I were approaching a significant scene of the second, better known tragedy. But first I needed a pause. A few miles west of Proctor, where we would turn off Highway 2 onto the less traveled Old Highway 2, he spotted a skeet shooting range with tables and benches, some erected under an aluminum awning, tailor-made for tired cyclists. The Big Fish had worked such restorative magic for me two days before, I wanted a redux. We put on rain pants and extra layers for our 20-minute break. These came in handy for the ride over the Bong Bridge from Duluth to Superior, Wisconsin.
We were on a ridge on the west side of Duluth when we spotted what looked like a flat blue horizon slicing low across the sky: our first sighting of Lake Superior. Motivation can be elusive, but seeing legendary places for the first time provides a jolt of energy. Thanks to Scott’s excellent route preparation, we easily navigated to the bicycle-pedestrian lane and started across. Our friends from Mac’s Café in Bagley, MN thought the wind on the bridge was scary, but we were more excited than apprehensive when we took in the swoop of the highway lanes and the high curve coming up. Being in a separate lane protected from the traffic was a huge boon. We stopped several times to take pictures.
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A railway bridge off to the right reminded Scott of a similar bridge he had ridden across in Germany in 2017. With his fully loaded bicycle, he came to a drop arm barrier halfway across the bicycle passageway which was part of a railroad bridge over the Hunte River, a tributary of the Weser River, near Elsfleth. Decaying infrastructure was common in Russia and the former Soviet Union where we spent many years of our Foreign Service careers. Scott saw no obvious reason why the passageway was blocked, so his first thought was how to get his bike and panniers past what he assumed was a broken barrier. Then another thought occurred to him. This was Germany. If the drop arm was down, there might be a valid reason. About that time, the bridge started to creak and groan, and the middle section swung open. A boat appeared and passed down river, the middle section of the bridge swung back into place, and the bridge clanked back together. After the drop arm lifted, he continued on his way. The story would have a very different ending had he not trusted his own German instincts. The near miss!
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We rode the last four miles to the Super 8 located adjacent to the Osaugie rails-to-trails bike trail at the edge of Superior. Off to our left we saw the Burlington Ore Dock, a relic of abandoned rail trestles, conveyor belts, and chutes that used to be connected to rail lines that brought in iron ore to be loaded onto 'lakers' and then shipped to distant ports. This is where we come to the second tragedy, the sinking of the freighter Edmund Fitzgerald on the evening of November 10, 1975, fifteen miles west of Dead Man’s Cove, Ontario. Before the ship took its fateful voyage, it stopped in Superior at this dock to pick up a load of 26,116 tons of iron ore pellets bound for Detroit. It was to be the last trip before shipping shutdown for the winter. What exactly happened is still in dispute and the source of theories and superstition, like shipwrecks throughout history. Gordon Lightfoot’s ballad, “The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald,” memorializes the biggest ship ever to sink in the Great Lakes and the crew of 29 men who went down with it. Their remains have never been recovered. Who can forget those eerie guitar riffs screeching like banshees coming for the crew.
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The temperature had dropped into the upper 40s at 18:30 when we unloaded our gear in the room. Still in our bike togs and more hungry than concerned about a shower, we walked across the parking lot to Gronk’s Bar and Grill for supper, a pub very popular with locals. Always a good sign. Their speciality is chicken so I had the spicy chicken sandwich and Scott a half chicken roasted in bread crumbs. It was good and hearty, just what we needed after the chilly day. We showered, then fell into bed.
Today's ride: 53 miles (85 km)
Total: 1,171 miles (1,885 km)
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* I LOVE the word verge but have never found cause to use it.
* Hooray for German instincts. I find myself adhering to them with success (in most cases).
5 years ago
5 years ago